


Under the Folding Branches

by grumkin_snark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-31 00:21:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13963287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumkin_snark/pseuds/grumkin_snark
Summary: He has only himself to blame, he knows that. He should have taken her away before all this. It's his own fault they're here in the Great Sept and she's marrying someone who's not him.





	Under the Folding Branches

**Author's Note:**

> For @epeolxtry, my partner in angst

It doesn’t feel real. The past month has been like living in stasis, lying with Elia by night and spending time with her by day under the guise of protection. The knowledge that she is Rhaegar’s betrothed is so far away from his cares that he almost forgets about it entirely, tells himself Elia is in King’s Landing merely to visit.

And then the stasis bursts and he’s deposited in the Great Sept of Baelor, listening to the High Septon wax poetic about the sanctity of matrimony. There is no tremor in Rhaegar’s voice as he affirms his commitment to marriage—which is more than he can say for Elia’s. She looks at Arthur ever so briefly, panic and longing and heartache written for only him to read.

He feels himself move. To say what, to  _do_  what, he doesn’t know.  _Anything_ , just so long as it means they won’t have to suffer this agony. He will declare his love, declare that it should be  _him_  in Rhaegar’s place; not as a prince, but as a lover, a partner, a husband.

Except Lewyn Martell’s grip on his arm is as unyielding as Dawn, a harsh reminder that for all his affability, the Dornish prince had fought his share of battles in the War of the Ninepenny Kings and that the years have diminished not a single ounce of his brawn.

Unbreakable though his hold is, his eyes are gentle, even sorrowful. He had known from the jump about them when they were young, and he’s known from the jump here, had more than once carved out time and space so they could be together without someone happening upon them. Granted, all of it was done with exasperation and a pinch of chastisement, but he’d done it of his own volition nonetheless.

“Let me go,” Arthur begs in a whisper.

“Acting rashly won’t get you what you want, it will get you dead. My niece, too.”

“I can’t just—”

“You can, and you will,” says Lewyn, not unkindly. Ser Gerold glances at them from the other side of the dais, and Lewyn lowers his voice. “You were in my care for ten years. What did you learn?”

Arthur wilts. “Unbowed, unbent, unbroken.”

“We are Dorne. We  _survive_.”

Lewyn’s hand stays firm on his arm, but not as a restraint. It’s Arthur’s worst nightmare come to pass, watching Elia have no choice but to say her part, and the old knight’s strength is all that keeps him from collapsing.

* * *

He drinks. Heavily.

He’s always held his liquor well, but ultimately the Lord Commander notices something’s awry, and firmly marches him out of the hall away from the revel. “Are you  _drunk_?” he demands. “You would disgrace yourself on the day of your prince’s wedding?”

 _I don’t give a damn about my prince!_  he wants to shout.  _How can I, when it is he who calls her wife and not me?_

“You’re in no fit state to perform your duties, or to be seen at all. You misrepresent our order.”

“But I’m supposed to stand guard for…” He can’t bring himself to give voice to it, let alone endure it. The ceremony had been bad enough, having to be right outside the door as Rhaegar…as  _Elia_ …

He nearly retches right then and there, all over the White Bull’s pristine armor.

“I am dismissing you to the barracks. Sleep off the ale and you’ll face proper censure on the morrow.”

Ser Gerold squeezes his shoulder, and it’s almost like he  _knows_ , but of course that’s impossible. If he  _knew_ , they wouldn’t be standing here talking. Nevertheless, Arthur makes his way through the now-deserted castle to the White Sword Tower.

He has only himself to blame, he knows that. He could have escaped with her, any of the days before this one. He could have escaped with her when they were six-and-ten and neither of them tied down. He could have pleaded his case harder with the Princess of Dorne, could have pleaded with his own parents, could have shown everyone that  _he_  was the only one who could love her the way she deserved to be loved. Not Baelor Brightsmile, not young Jaime Lannister, not bloody  _Rhaegar_.

Could have, could have, could have.

But because of his inaction, their stations are fixed more than ever. She’ll be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms one day—one day  _soon_ , if Rhaegar’s plans come to anything—and he will always be… _this_. Bound into silence. Bound to say nothing as she bears Rhaegar’s children, as she valiantly pretends that she is pleased with her husband.

He rages like he never has before, rages against gods and men and everything in between. He slams his fist into the wall until his knuckles bleed, the pain a welcome distraction. Lewyn finds him there later, sitting on the edge of his cot, his entire arm throbbing. Lewyn is quiet as he bandages his hand as best he can. He graciously offers no information about Elia, about what had happened.

Arthur makes the mistake of looking at him, and the sheer  _understanding_  he sees has him shattering into a thousand pieces. Lewyn holds him without judgment, lets him weep until there’s nothing left at all.


End file.
